


while doubling entendres with the voicings

by TrekFaerie



Series: The Nice and Accurate Kink Meme Fills of Trek Treksson, Bitch [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Cunnilingus, Friends With Benefits, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Pre-Relationship, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFaerie/pseuds/TrekFaerie
Summary: Gabriel really likes pussy.That's basically it.





	while doubling entendres with the voicings

**Author's Note:**

> there really isn't, like. a tag for "friends with benefits, but we're absolutely not friends at all."
> 
> Gabriel/Aziraphale(/Crowley): https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/9084.html?thread=132476

It had started with a horrifically bad lapse in judgment: he had decided to try to be nice to Gabriel.

It wasn’t something he usually went out of his way to do; he tried to be polite, tried to ignore his overbearing… everything… But, when he found himself Upstairs for a quarterly review, something seemed… off. Gabriel seemed smaller somehow, a little hunched over, his handsome features twisted at the edges with something sad and lonely. When Michael passed by his office, seeming right as rain, he drew even further into himself, and… well. Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He just looked so sad.

“You know, Gabriel,” he said, trying to keep things friendly but professional, “if you ever find yourself needing some company, you could always pop down to Earth for a while.

He just gave him a blank stare, so he continued on. “It wouldn’t be any trouble,” he said. “It could even be fun! We could eat out, or something.”

Gabriel’s whole being seemed to perk up at that, and Aziraphale allowed himself a smile of accomplishment. “You really mean it?” he asked, sounding oddly dubious.

“Of course! How’s next month?”

And, well, that was how he ended up sitting on Gabriel’s face in his bookshop. And how it happened again. And again. And again.

As it turned out, Gabriel – of all the many things he could have settled on for his sole indulgence [1] – absolutely loved eating pussy. That was actually why he and Michael had had a falling out; she had finally gotten tired of him constantly sniffing around her for a chance at hers, and had rejected him. His ego hadn’t recovered from the blow when Aziraphale had made his thoughtlessly innocent suggestion; since he had just assumed he already knew about it, because Gabriel could not fathom an existence that did not depend on knowing everything about his life, he had also assumed that Aziraphale had made an offer of oral sex.

Aziraphale had not. He had been thinking more along the lines of a spot of lunch at one of London’s hidden gems; not anywhere he went with Crowley, of course, but somewhere nice and pleasant, to take his mind off his troubles. Since his sexual lingo was rather limited to random snatches of Edwardian slang, he hadn’t really thought to consider the alternative implications of “eating out” before he said it.

When Gabriel had first met him at the shop, and had immediately dropped to his knees and started undoing Aziraphale’s trousers, he had been… surprised, to say the least. A little bit stunned. He realized that there had been a clear failure of communication, one that could be easily fixed.

… And then, he didn’t. He instead allowed Gabriel to undress him, formed the necessary genital configuration for the task, and rode his face hard enough to give himself rug burns all over his shins.

Even as they continued to meet, he wasn’t sure why. Part of him was curious to see what would happen. Another part of him was concerned about making a fuss, and just wanted to go with the flow. And yet, there was another part.

And that part just really liked it.

Even if Gabriel hadn’t been very good at eating cunt, just shutting him up for longer than ten minutes at a time was well worth the price of admission, as it were. Luckily, he was also very, very talented, with skilled fingers and an able tongue. He was insatiable, as well; a monthly visit turned into weekly, while a weekly visit turned into twice, then three times. [2] Aziraphale almost started to find himself excited to see him darken his door.

They always met in the bookshop, and usually stayed there; something about the setting made things feel a little bit like a business association, rather than anything personal. It was usually done, as it was that day, on the carpet near the front door, tables and chairs pushed to the sides. Though he knew that the polite but firm note on the door would keep any humans from accidentally walking in and having their corneas burnt out for their curiosity, the thought of it happening… Well, it made him blush and hide his face in his hands, but very nearly everything he was doing with Gabriel did.

He was on his back, hips propped up on a pillow, and though Gabriel had barely even started, had just begun leaving marks on his thighs with bites that were just an edge too hard, he already had a forearm thrown over his eyes. There was a dinner party, back in Versailles, where a pretty but oblivious young marquis had extolled the virtues of the ortolan to a visibly nauseous Aziraphale: a dish so inherently sinful, in both method and intent, that one had to hide their face from God while eating it. It had stuck with him over the years, that idea; and though it earned him endless teasing from any sexual partners he accidentally tripped into having over the centuries (Gabriel did it, and would have then as well, if his tongue wasn’t firmly inside of his hole, making the muscles of his thighs quake with every movement), but still, the habit continued.

Being so well-distracted, he didn’t remove the arm when the door opened. He did, however, when there was a voice. And only because of who the voice was.

“Angel, really: if you were actually running a bookshop here, you’d be out of business in a we—“

The door swinging shut behind him sounded loud as a gunshot, for how suddenly, terribly quiet everything had become.

For a while, they just stared at each other. Aziraphale stared at Crowley. Crowley stared at Aziraphale. Gabriel stared at both in rapid succession. It would have been comical if Aziraphale weren’t sure that someone, for some reason, was going to die.

“That’s a demon,” said Gabriel, an observation that would surely get him a commendation from Heaven, if they were ever to know about any of this.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said delicately.

“In your bookstore.”

“Perhaps he wants to buy a book.”

“No, no, I think I recognize…” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember; outside, a peacock’s feather fell onto someone’s head. “Crawly! The snake, from Eden! That’s why he looks so familiar.”

“He goes by Crowley, nowadays.”

“And what makes him think he can just walk into the sanctified realm of an angel?”

“Gabriel, really, it _is_ just a bookshop, lovely as it is—“

“I’m sorry, are the two of you really going to act like _I’m_ the unusual element here?” There was just the slightest bit of hysteria at the edges of Crowley’s words. “Because I’m not sure you should be judging the demon for just walking into a shop when your angel face is glistening with something that is _very much not_ holy light!”

Gabriel sniffed. Then, frowning, he sniffed again. And again, brows furrowed.

“Gabriel, are you quite all right—“

“He’s turned on.”

“Wh. I. B.” Aziraphale found himself unable to produce more than syllables. Crowley, for his part, had frozen mid-righteous rant.

“Can’t you smell it?” He didn’t know that childlike curiosity and wolfish hunger could mix together in an expression, but Gabriel was somehow pulling it off. “It’s so strong. I can smell it from over here.”

“Wh—Angels can sense _love_ , Gabriel! We don’t _smell_ it, and we certainly don’t…” Though, to be honest, Aziraphale was only a Principality; certainly the Archangels had much greater powers, and perhaps those powers included… scenting the lust of a demon. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing Gabriel had ever done. “Can you?”

And then, because it seemed like the only option one had, when a situation was wildly careening out of control, was to throw yourself in wholly and hold on for dear life, he added, “What does it smell like?”

“Like _ketoret_. Like balsam and myrrh.” He stood, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat as he did so, crossing the foyer with inhuman quickness to lord over Crowley – and he did, despite the two being very near the same height, looking massive compared to Crowley’s slight frame. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and Aziraphale was rather shocked that Crowley had yet to react, his face perfectly neutral, even as Gabriel, bold as anything, pulled off his sunglasses and carelessly tossed them to parts unknown. “Like _korban olah_. Lambs’ blood and first fruits. Wine on sand. An old smell.”

“I don’t smell anything at all,” he said, mostly to try to hide the fact that he did not really remember how any of those things smelled.

Gabriel made a dismissive gesture at him, and then returned his attentions to Crowley, whose back was about as close to the door as someone could get without physically phasing through it. “Interested in joining us, serpent,” he said, as it was more of a statement than a question.

Crowley breathed out a laugh, but there was a nervous edge to it that just managed to keep him from looking cool. “Is that what you Archangels are doing these days, then?” he asked. “Tempting demons?”

“Archangels do many things,” he said, which definitely did not answer any question anyone had asked. “You know, Aziraphale, your little pet demon—“

“Gabriel, really—“

“He’s prettier than most demons allow themselves to be. Even when they make themselves up to go amongst the humans, they never go as far as this.” He traced a thumb over Crowley’s cheek. To Aziraphale’s surprise, and Gabriel’s visible delight, he colored slightly and shied away from the touch, looking anywhere but at the two angels. “And he’s shy! Just like you, Aziraphale! Now, how did the two of you ever manage to get together if you both act like this?” [[3]](https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/001/258/892/732.jpg)

“Gabriel!”

“Now,” he said, smiling and patting Crowley’s cheek, “why don’t you be a good little fiend and go sit in that chair over there until I’m done with him, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you?”

And he did. He managed to pull himself away from Gabriel’s orbit, stiffly walk over to a nearby chair, and sit, staring a hole into the carpet. At no point did he even try to make eye contact—until he did, glancing over to Aziraphale, asking a million questions with the nervous crease around his eyes… Aziraphale sighed and gave him a fond smile, hoping to answer even just a few of those questions, to reassure him that though it was certainly a very weird situation, and one that they would have to have some sort of talk about once Gabriel was gone, it was not one of any real danger, and it would all work out fine in the end.

And, honestly, from the darkened spot at the front of his trousers… it certainly wasn’t going anywhere that Crowley didn’t obviously find some active interest in going.

Gabriel was already back between Aziraphale’s legs, returning to his work with relish, but Aziraphale… At his first moan, rolling his head back, he happened to meet Crowley’s stare, heated and fixated entirely on him, and he just. Couldn’t. He pressed his knuckle to his mouth, biting down hard enough to leave teeth marks in the flesh. It didn’t do too much to stem the tide, still let choked moans and breathy sighs past, but allowed him just that bit of cover.

Until a firm hand gripped his wrist and brought it, nearly slammed it, down onto the carpet. He was sure it was Gabriel, at first, having a snit over it—until he glanced up and saw yellow eyes with blown-out slits of pupils.

“Can’t hear you like that,” Crowley said, and, God above, he sounded _wrecked_.

“Ahem!” Gabriel looked up at them, a condescending little smile on his face. “Hey, demon, did anyone say you could move? Actually, to be more specific, did _I_ say you could move? No, that didn’t happen. So. Chair.”

Crowley gave him a very telling expression [4], but returned to the chair without further comment.

He came an almost mortifyingly short time later, eyes still locked on Crowley’s, even as he clenched and spurted around Gabriel’s fingers. He pushed himself up onto his elbows as he felt the fingers leave him; generally, Gabriel didn’t even get close to being convinced to leave until he’d wrung at least five orgasms out of him, but he supposed getting a special treat that day that changed it up a little bit.

Gabriel beckoned Crowley over, and though he, quiet brattishly, did not move for just the briefest of moments, he did so before Gabriel actually thought to say anything about it. “Get undressed,” he said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how that works.”

“Bloody Archangel…” But, he made quick work of it, pulling his shirt over his head, unbuckling his belt, shimmying out of his trousers. His panties – and they were exactly that, thought Aziraphale, feeling somewhat lightheaded – pulled away from his cunt with an aching slowness, a single, glimmering strand of slick connecting them until they were around his knees, then his ankles, then kicked off to the side, and all Aziraphale could think, in the warm treacle that his mind had become, was how wonderfully retro Crowley was, to keep one hairstyle from the ‘70s.

Gabriel arranged them, rather like dolls, putting Crowley in Aziraphale’s former position on the floor, but putting Aziraphale behind him, his body between Aziraphale’s legs, his head on Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley’s legs were spread wide, far enough to hook his knees around Aziraphale’s thighs. Gabriel leaned back for a moment, taking in his tableau, and he decided it was good, and he dropped down between legs again. He knew it had started when Crowley suddenly gasped and squirmed in his lap.

Crowley’s noises were a near constant groan, coming from deep in the back of his throat, his hips struggling to move against the heavy press of Gabriel’s shoulders. He glanced at him through the sweat-stuck hair plastered to his forehead. “I’m actually quite mad about how good he is at this,” he said with a breathless laugh.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale leaned forward, placing his chin on top of Crowley’s hair. “Should I take notes, then?”

Crowley didn’t answer. He did, however, take his hand in his own, linking their fingers.

It was clear that after the first orgasm, signaled only by a sudden twist of his back and a bitten-off curse, that Crowley believed it was all done; he made to get up, and seemed genuinely confused when Gabriel, who had not even paused his tongue around Crowley’s twitching clit, merely reached up and placed a hand on his stomach to push him back down again. Aziraphale found himself whispering nonsense in an encouraging tone, petting his hair.

The third orgasm was around the time that the deep noises became higher, from rough groans to a strained whine, his body pulled thin, as if unsure itself whether to go towards the feeling or away from it. The noises were shockingly wet, and only getting more so as the fourth came around – even a miracle wouldn’t manage to fully remove that from his carpet, Aziraphale thought with a sigh… Though, he wasn’t entirely sure that was a bad thing.

Crowley’s limit, it seemed, was five. The five wounds. The five pillars. The five books. And now, the five orgasms.

“ _Fuck_ , enough of it!” Crowley managed to get a good foothold on Gabriel’s head, pushing him away with a grimace. “I’m not made of the damned stuff!”

The complaints rolled off Gabriel as easy as water. “Wow! The Fall really does lower your sexual endurance,” he said, completely ignoring Crowley’s offended splutterings. “Wish I could tell Uriel about that; she’d be so happy to know her theory was right!”

Gabriel stood, humming a little showtune, and dusted himself off. The front of his shirt and the crotch of his trousers were practically translucent at that point, but a quick little miracle instantly made him presentable for the office. “Same time next week?” he asked amicably.

Aziraphale let out a sharp breath between his teeth. “I’ll…” He glanced at Crowley, who was still rather dazed in his arms. “I’ll call you, Gabriel. How does that sound?”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Suit yourself.” With a flash and a sound like trumpets, he was gone, leaving them alone in the quiet bookshop.

A million thoughts crossed his mind all at once, jumbled up together before they reached his lips, and came out as a mildly unsettled sigh. Crowley blinked, slowly, and said, “I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

He still couldn’t think of anything to say. So, he just started to laugh. And then Crowley did, too. They laughed together.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Uriel liked to write sonnets about righteous judgment and the repentance of sinners. Sandalphon listened to smooth jazz.  
> [2] He couldn’t imagine why Michael would tire of it, but he supposed it did take a lot of time out of the day, of which hers were chock-full of important Archangel business, while his mainly involved reading books and half-hearted thwarting. Though, that did imply that Gabriel had some Archangel duties falling to the wayside… It was probably fine.  
> [4] It told: “In literally any other situation, I would have your guts for garters right now, but I’m already solidly in that ‘weird sex thing’ headspace and it’s very difficult to come out of it, so count your blessings.”


End file.
